


Devastated

by vienn_peridot



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Angst, Depression, Hurt/Comfort, Other, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-28
Updated: 2014-10-03
Packaged: 2018-02-19 02:35:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 7,969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2371322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vienn_peridot/pseuds/vienn_peridot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>MelodicSiren of Tumblr wanted OT6 Hurt/Comfort with Prowl being sick and the Constructicons playing nursemaid.</p><p>Prowl got the illness I am most familiar with, the muse got the bit between it's teeth and hasn't been seen since.</p><p>Please do not read if you are trying to avoid Depression triggers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is going to go up in the same chunks it was originally posted to Tumblr in because I'm a lazy shit who hates editing.
> 
> Playlist for this fic can be found [here](http://adhesivesandscrap.tumblr.com/post/98295172651/devastated-playlist)

Prowl’s internal alarm went off, rousing him from recharge.

 

The chronometer said it was early morning. He was scheduled for a half-day and wasn’t really needed anywhere until the afternoon. Prowl’s original plan had been to go down to the firing range and spend a nice, relaxing few joors putting holes in practise drones, since he wasn’t allowed to put holes in the mechs who were responsible for the state his life was in. Right now his limbs felt too heavy to lift, let alone pick up a rifle.

 

Blue optics gazed blankly at the wall as he considered. The berth was warm and comfortable and he really couldn’t be bothered moving. A self-diagnostic showed no physical reason for the lethargy pressing him down. Maybe it was the lack of work to be done, or the interrupted defrag cycles of the last few weeks?

 

The unwelcome gestalt bond hummed away behind the shields he held on it. Prowl had no idea where the Constructicons were or what they were doing, nor did he care.

 

As if sensing his attention, he felt a gentle pressure that could be interpreted as five varying ‘Good morning!’s being sent to him.

 

No, the range would be there another day. He would use this extra time to get in a proper defrag and clear whatever was causing the erroneous readings in his sensory feedback.

 

Rolling over, Prowl curled in on himself and forced himself back into recharge.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prowl sleeps through a meeting and gets unwelcome visitors.

Insistent tapping at the door half-roused Prowl from fitful recharge.

 

‘He’s not in there!” A muffled voice said from outside. “I _told_ you, his schedule said he had a meeting with the Prime.”

 

He knew that voice. Part of his spark liked it and part of his spark hated it. Blearily, Prowl onlined his optics and stared at the wall. He’d left the lights on, but it felt like the middle of the night. Why were there people knocking on his door in the middle of the night? Couldn’t they just leave him alone?

 

“He never turned up to the meeting.” Answered another voice that also made Prowl’s spark do weird things.

 

The warring impulses almost energised Prowl enough to get up and tell them to frag off and let him rest. He sat up instead, forcing heavy legs off the berth. His doorwings dropped straight down along his backplates, it simply wasn’t worth the energy to fight gravity when he was the only one in his room.

 

“So Prime gave me _this_.” The second voice again.

 

There was some scrabbling, then the warning bleep of an override command being entered and accepted before the door slid open to reveal the five green-and-purple plated nightmares that were better known as the Constructicons.

His _gestalt-mates_.

 

Five sets of red optics blinked sheepishly at him as a tide of molten rage stirred sluggishly in the depths of Prowl’s being. Heavy doorwings rose slowly into a position of anger/threat, shaking as the Tactician onlined his vocaliser.

 

“ _What_ are you doing here?”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prowl needs a copy of 'Constructicon Training for Dummies'

“Um, we’ve come to see how you are.” Scavenger spoke up first, uncharacteristically taking the lead.

 

Prowl’s optics narrowed dangerously.

 

“Yeah, Prime asked us to see if you were OK.” That was Bonecrusher, concern plain on the portion of his face not concealed by his visor.

 

As one, the five Decepticons tried to edge forwards into Prowl’s quarters. A low growl from the Praxian’s engine and a twitch from his doorwings stopped them dead in their tracks.

 

“He gave us a one-use override for you door so we could check on you.” Hook was now matching up in Prowl’s memory as Voice Number Two. “He’s worried about you.”

 

That was the _wrong_ thing to say.

 

A short, bitter laugh bubbled out of Prowl’s vocaliser. It was a sound utterly devoid of mirth. The purple-and-green members of his unwanted gestalt flinched violently at the sound, Scavenger ducking behind Long Haul for safety.

 

“He’s worried, is he?” Prowl asked rhetorically, venom dripping from his words.

 

“You can’t expect me to believe _that_. Nobody cared enough to notice when Bombshell was controlling me, nobody was worried about the cause of the memory damage that let him into my mind.” The Praxian’s engine snarled, “Do not insult my intelligence by expecting me to believe that _any_ of that has changed.”

 

Five sets of red optics turned kicked-turbopuppy looks on Prowl, but he was unmoved. Blinding fury warred uncomfortably with an uncaring lethargy inside the black-and-white mech; he just wanted these hateful reminders of his new life _out of his sight_.

 

“What on Earth, Cybertron and all the planets in-between could _possibly_ be so important that Prime gave you a key to my quarters and sent you here to harass me _in the middle of the night?!_ ” Prowl was shouting by now, the anger winning and sending him surging to his feet, hands fisted and itching to hit something, _anything_.

 

“Um, Prowl? I’m really sorry, but it’s not the middle of the night.” Mixmaster said, taking one long, reckless step closer to the enraged Tactician.

 

Prowl bristled defensively as the entire gestalt took their cue from Mixmaster and moved into the room behind him, sticking close to the wall and using the alchemist/chemist as a shield. The black-and-white plated mech’s entire frame vibrated with threat, armour plating alternately flaring out to intimidate and clamping down to protect vulnerable protoform as he contemplated physical violence. Thoughtfully, Hook closed the door so that there would be no accidental witnesses to the confrontation.

 

“What do you mean, ‘ _it’s not the middle of the night_ ’?” Prowl demanded, fixating on Mixmaster as the nearest target. “Besides, the time should not matter; _none_ of you are welcome in my quarters at _any_ time!”

 

Five sets of red optics tracked Prowl’s movements apprehensively as he flexed his hands, claws extending and retracting back into black digits. His earlier lethargy seemed to have been completely burned away by the rage sweeping through him. Why wouldn’t they just leave him alone? Bad enough that they were inside his mind and his spark, now they had to invade what precious privacy he had left?

 

 

“Get. Out.” Prowl snarled, claws clicking out and doorwings sweeping back into hard, angry lines perpendicular to his backplating.

 

The Constructicons swayed gratifyingly before the tsunami of blazing wrath Prowl thrust at them over the gestalt bond, but stolidly refused to move. The Tactician was desperate to get them out of his quarters, out of his mind, out of his _life_. Why wouldn’t they just _leave him alone?_

Their silent, unresponsive presence was just too much.

 

Prowl’s self-control broke.

 

“I said, _GET OUT!_ ” Prowl roared. Optics blazing, he surged forward to shove violently at Mixmaster’s chest with both hands.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Constructicons trap Prowl into an intervention (of sorts)

Mixmaster accepted the shove, letting Prowl push him backwards. The rest of his gestalt scuttled sideways as Prowl continued to advance until he had the Constructicon pressed against the wall. The purple-and-green mech kept his field smooth and calm, despite the razor-sharp claws so close to his sparkchamber.

 

Prowl vented raggedly, doorwings trembling as he rejected the influence of the gestalt coding and flexed his fingers, gouging great lines into study armour. He calculated the length of time it would take to incapacitate the Constructicons and stuff them in a cleaning cupboard somewhere. Why wouldn’t they just _leave?!_

 

“We need to have a talk, Prowl. All of us, together.” Hook said, drawing the attention of the infuriated Praxian. “Check your chronometer. I _swear_ to you, if says any time during the night shift _right now_ we’ll go away and we can leave it for the morning.”

 

Blazing blue optics turned a basilisk stare on the craneformer, considering the offer. The now-open gestalt bond thrummed with five-sided concern, support, understanding and a kind of earnest honesty he’d never expected a Decepticon spark to feel. Snarling silently, Prowl jerked his helm in a nod. Even if it was as late as he suspected there would be plenty of time for him to get far enough away from the base to ensure himself some peace and quiet before they came looking for him.

 

Dropping his hands from Mixmaster’s scored chestplate as if it burned him, Prowl moved out of range of that soothing EM field. He wanted to flee, to scream, to break something, to curl up in a ball and cry until his frame was completely dehydrated. His life was a living _nightmare_ , the Pit itself and nobody cared. Their concern was only a show, a charade. Social pleasantries observed to save face while they all wished him elsewhere.

 

So long as he handed his work in on time and presented a functional façade, nobody even _pretended_ to care.

 

Acidic darkness flooded in to fill Prowl as the brief wave of energising rage subsided, having battered itself uselessly upon the steady unresponsiveness of the five Constructicons. Placated by their apparently genuine promise, Prowl wearily checked his internal chronometer.

 

[Current Time/Local: **1715** ]

 

**_What?!_ **

 

He pinged it again.

 

[Current Time/Local: **1715** ]

 

A quick diagnostic showed no detectible malfunctions in his systems, but that HAD to be wrong. Prowl ran the diagnostic again. It also came back clear. Unconvinced, Prowl turned to check the wall-mounted chronometer he had been unable to see from the berth.

 

The traitorous object displayed 1716.

 

The Constructicons graciously kept the triumph muted as Prowl slumped in defeat. There would be no delay, no reprieve. No chance to escape. Unless. . .

 

“I am late for a meeting with Optimus.” Desperately, the Praxian latched on to the excuse. “Unfortunately, it appears that we will have to have this talk at a later time, after all.”

 

As Prowl moved briskly towards the door a deep purple-black hand gently took his upper arm, restraining him. He ignored the other’s field as it tried to soothe his own desperately spiking one, tugging futilely in an attempt to break the relentless grip Long Haul had on him.

 

“Optimus postponed the meeting when he gave Hook the code-key.” Long Haul’s voice was softer than Prowl had ever heard it, as if the loadhauler was afraid the Tactician would shatter if he said the wrong thing.

 

If Prowl hadn’t been rendered entirely numb by the loss of his last chance to gracefully flee the untenable situation, he probably would have.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sleeping too much, sleeping too little, fucked-up sleep in general and losing track of time. Never fun, always confusing.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone is on tenterhooks

Instead, he quietly let Long Haul steer him through to his study. The other four who made up their Gestalt followed them wordlessly, trailing behind like gigantic purple-green ducklings. Once there, the loadhauler nudged Prowl towards the most comfortable seat in his quarters. It was one specifically designed for Praxian frames, with enough padding to raise the optical ridges of everyone who didn’t know him.

 

Which had turned out to be every single mech he had ever met.

 

None of the Constructicons so much as blinked at the hideously overstuffed chair, but they had been inside his head as Devastator so they didn’t count.

 

Prowl sank heavily into the embrace of the chair as the Constructicons politely arranged themselves in a semicircle before him. There weren’t enough chairs to go around, so they simply moved the sparse furniture and sat on the floor.

 

It was an interesting move, one the Praxian certainly hadn’t expected from these mecha. The Tactician was too drained to react; too exhausted to wonder what game his unwanted gestalt was playing. He would listen to what they had to say then kick them out so he could go back to his berth and escape into recharge.

 

The five purple-and-green plated Constructicons fidgeted, Prowl could feel a muted hum which told him they were arguing silently. He stared at a point vaguely over Bonecrusher’s shoulder, ignoring the glances shot at him as the six mechs collectively waited for someone to break the awkward silence.

 

“W-we want to say sorry.” Scavenger found untapped depths of courage to be the first to take the plunge.

 

“You’re _sorry?_ ” Prowl queried, feeling something slow and dangerous turning over in the depths of his spark.

 

“Please, hear us out.” Hook took over as Scavenger’s nerve failed at the strange glint in Prowl’s optics. “Let us say what we have to and then we will answer any questions you have, or if  – if you don’t have any we’ll go.”

 

Visors snapped up in a display of openness and vulnerability, five sets of ruby optics pleaded with one hard, cold pair of aquamarine. The Constructicons held their vents, afraid to even twitch in case their reluctant sixth rejected them.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love Prowl's big squishy chair of doom ^.^


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Events have seriously damaged Prowl

For long minutes, nobody moved.

 

As much as Prowl wanted to be left alone, it finally dawned on him that the unusually patient Constructicons weren’t going to get bored with the silent treatment and go away. They actually weren’t going to leave him in peace until he’d listened to what they had to say.

 

His traitorous spark twitched, urging him to curl into the presence of the five he had been unwillingly bonded to. It made him want to purge his tanks, except there wasn’t anything in his tanks _to_ purge. With a muted kind of shock Prowl realised that he hadn’t refuelled at all in the last three orns.

 

“Fine.” Prowl muttered, doorwings sagging down against the low back of his chair in reluctant capitulation.

 

If the situation had been anything but what it was, it would have been hilarious how quickly five battle-scarred veteran Decepticon warriors could morph into a pack of excited turbopuppies. None of them moved an inch from their spots on the floor of Prowl’s study, but every single purple-and-green plated mech perked up instantly and beamed at the Tactician as if he’d just given them the best gift in the known universe.

 

From the unwelcome level of feedback the Praxian received along the gestalt bond before he stomped down on his end, it probably was.

 

There was a strange flavour of relief to their unintentional sending that he stolidly ignored. It felt too much like the sensation of calm-reward the implanted gestalt coding fed Prowl whenever he was in contact with one of the Constructicons.

 

A conditioned pleasure response created by the ugly, disfiguring grafts onto his code that could never be removed.

 

Tumbler – no; _Chromedome’s_ betrayal had made this possible.

 

It was a textbook Pavlovian sham and Prowl _did not want it_.

 

He did not want the gestalt bond. He didn’t want the Constructicons. He didn’t want _any_ of this.

 

If he was being completely honest, Prowl couldn’t bring himself to want _anything_ anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes you just forget to eat. You don't really feel anything, even hunger. You don't really taste what you're eating, it's like watching someone on TV eating the food. The idea of choosing something, preparing it, chewing it then dealing with dishes is just so overwhelming that it paralyses you.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Constructicons apologise and try to explain

The distinctive snare-click of a vocaliser being reset drew Prowl’s wandering attention back to the half-circle of mechs sitting patiently before him. Swiftly reviewing the last few breems, the Tactician realised he couldn’t even pinpoint when his attention had started to wander.

 

How utterly _humiliating_.

 

“Prowl,” Bonecrusher’s voice caught Prowl before he could get sucked back into his thoughts. “Scavenger’s right. We do want to say we’re sorry.”

 

Four purple-and-green helms bobbed, faceplates wearing almost identical expressions of seriousness. As much as he wanted to protest, Prowl held his peace and refrained from interrupting. Arguing would drag this fiasco out and keep these unwelcome interlopers here longer.

 

“We come as a set, all fiv-six of us.” The bulldozer-former continued, looking a little surprised that the Praxian hadn’t interrupted him. “What hurts you hurts us, and the other way round.”

 

Again a four-part Constructicon group nod backed up Bonecrusher’s words. Without the visor to hide behind he struggled to find the right words in the face of Prowl’s silent apathy. When it became apparent that he couldn’t continue, Mixmaster took over, sending an affectionate jab at his perfectionistic gestalt-mate over the bond

 

“We kinda got a bit carried away that first time as Devastator.” Mixmaster took the fall and made the most humbling admission that any of the Gestalt had ever had to make.

 

No wonder the Bonecrusher hadn’t been able to continue; It was against the ‘dozer’s very nature to openly admit a mistake. Mixmaster was struggling, but when Prowl remained silent he took his courage in both hands and forged ahead bravely.

 

“We’re _meant_ to be a Hextet and to finally be _whole_ again. . .” Words failed the chemist.

 

How to describe that feeling of _wholeness_ to someone who didn’t know what it was like to _crave_ that unity more than they craved life itself? The joyous feeling of completion, every atom of your being singing in a six-part harmony that was at once achingly familiar and exotically different. The addictive new flavour of someone who just _fit_ so well with them they had to learn everything they could in any way possible.

 

Losing Scrapper had nearly ended them all. To have found a sixth in Prowl who completed them so perfectly was a miracle the Constructicons still hadn’t quite wrapped their processors around.

 

“Well. Uh. Well, it. . .” Mixmaster gave up on searching for the right words for the feeling. “We sorta forgot that you weren’t built with the code like we were. It felt like having a missing part of you back, and it just felt so right to have you as part of us that we didn’t even think it might now have been the same for you.”

 

Five rather confused and definitely embarrassed Decepticons squirmed like scolded sparklings, looking pleadingly up at Prowl. Flat blue optics saw but didn’t react. Doorwings stayed inert, drooping against the low chair back. Silently they begged him to say something, to react.

 

Something.

 

_Anything._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Being asked to act or react when everything you have is going into fighting an invisible monster is the absolute pits.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The apology is clarified. Prowl sorta reacts.

They got nothing, and Mixmaster wilted visibly. Scavenger reached out a hand and laid it over a deep purple fist that was clenched against the caterpillar tracks making up thigh armour.

 

Tactile contact allowed them a much tighter, narrower band for transmission of comfort and support than the gestalt bond. The Constructicons didn’t need to hide or pretend anything in front of Prowl. No need to keep from him the internal functioning and dynamics of what it meant to be a member of a gestalt.

 

Their weaknesses were now his, after all.

 

Just as his had become theirs.

 

Blue optics tracked the little gesture of comfort, a minute line formed between Prowl’s optic ridges. Disapproval? Confusion? It disappears before anyone can decode it, leaving his faceplates smooth. None of the Decepticons dared to press their luck by testing their gestalt link to the Praxian in order to find out.

 

“We are happy that you’re part of us,” Longhaul said tentatively. “We really, truly are.”

 

Wide garnet optics pleaded for Prowl to believe him.

 

Prowl didn’t seem to notice that the loadhauler had even spoken.

 

“We’re _not_ happy about how it happened.” Hook said brusquely, cutting to the heart of the issue with surgical precision.

 

Prowl flinched, armour flaring and clamping undecidedly. Hope flared in the Constructicons. He had reacted, he _was_ listening.

 

“We’ve had time to talk and figure some things out,” The ersatz medic willingly took what they had all voted to be the hardest part of this conversation. “You’re background is so different from ours it was hard for us to understand at first. After talking to some mechs we worked out just how wrong it was for someone like you.”

 

The Praxian’s lipplates flattened and rage flashed briefly through his optics. He’d though it was _blatantly fragging obvious_ how wrong the whole situation was. He just wanted his life back, what that too much to ask? Doorwings lifted briefly into a posture of pure, murderous rage before dropping back as if expressing his anger was too much effort.

 

“Sorry it took us so long.” Mixmaster barged in again, annoyed that Hook was getting a reaction and he hadn’t been able to. “We should have figured it out, with how much you’re hurting.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I. . . they're such PUPPIES in private. Feeling so bad for putting them through this D:


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The OT6 struggle with cultural differences

Hook broke ranks long enough to lean over and cuff Mixmaster upside the head hard enough to make his message clear, but not hard enough to so much as scuff the chemist’s finish. This subject was Hook’s to handle, since it fell within his area of expertise.

 

“We have a problem with culture.” Hook took over the explanation again. “Not just the Autobot/Decepticon thing. Gestalt Coding is not native to your systems and we forget that even though you have it now, that wasn’t always the case.”

 

Aquamarine optics drilled into Hook’s deep red ones, unhappy and accusing. The Crane-former fidgeted, wanting to look away but not daring to break optic contact. He couldn’t rely on the link with Prowl the way he could with the original members of his gestalt. Looking away might mean missing a vital clue about Prowl’s emotional state.

 

It was not something that came easily to the Constructicons. With each other there had always been the Gestalt bond to transmit thoughts and feelings. If two had a serious disagreement and didn’t patch it up quickly the rest would force them to sort it out. Outside of their little cohort all that had mattered was not fragging off more powerful Decepticons. Negotiating with an outsider was as alien to them as being aprt of a Gestalt was to Prowl.

 

The five green-and-purple mechs were seriously out of their element, but this was _Prowl_. Their Prowl. Even with the short time he’d been part of their Hextet, they couldn’t imagine life without him.

 

"Are you proposing that we remove the additions to my code so I can have my life back?” The Praxian’s voice was unwontedly rough, hands clenching into fists against his thigh plating as he continued, “It was made quite clear to me that it was impossible to do so.”

 

Prowl wanted them to get to the point and leave. He was tired right down to his spark, desperate for the oblivion of recharge so he could escape. If it took cruelty to make the Constructicons go; so be it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wrestling your brain 24/7 is bloody exhausting. You end up with very little left afterwards to use on daily life, let alone dealing with others.
> 
> Low blow, Prowl. You fight dirty.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prowl slips down the rabbit hole

“No matter how much I wish it, that can never happen.” Cold, clear, cutting words in a matter-of-fact tone edged with enough bitterness to poison Unicron himself. “I am _painfully_ aware that the changes to my code are irreversible.”

 

Prowl felt a moment of petty gratification at the expression of hurt which streaked across the faces of his unwanted Gestalt before irrational guilt flared. He crushed the errant emotion, blaming it on the grafts to his coding. It could not possibly be a reaction to deliberately hurting mechs who cared for him.

 

Nobody cared about him.

 

Not anymore.

 

The tide of despair Prowl had been subconsciously fighting for longer than he could remember rose to consume him as he finally acknowledged the situation.

 

He was alone. Everyone who had ever cared about him had died or grown to hate him over time. Chromedome, his almost-brother, had violated his mind. Committed an act of mental rape that left him open to Brainstorm’s control, causing Prowl him to betray everything he’d ever held dear.

 

Nobody had noticed or cared.

 

Prowl had lied to Bumblebee when he said he took nothing personally.

 

The truth was, some betrayals were so unspeakably horrendous that they put everything else into perspective.

 

It was a bitter and brutal measure of priorities that had been literally beaten into him over the millennia.

 

Prowl found that attempting to explain it to another only drove them away faster.

 

Here was a pentad of mechs he had been bonded to against his will, sitting on his office floor trying to talk him into caring again. Five _Decepticons_ and they were using clumsy sophistry to coax Prowl into capitulating to the foreign coding and _trust_ them.

 

Why?

 

What could they possibly think to gain from it, besides a new toy?

 

Why should he do it?

 

There was no point.

 

Everyone left.

 

If Prowl himself wasn’t enough to repulse someone, then they would reach the point where they had no further use for him. Inevitably the pretence would end and he would be as alone has he’d been since the destruction of Praxis.

 

Bleak desolation swamped Prowl’s spark, spreading a haze before his optics and muting all sound. Misery numbed his sensors. The mechs seated on his floor spoke, he heard sounds but no meaning registered within his processors. A warning popped up on his HUD, stating that his Tactical mods were entering standby mode to reduce power drain. He would need to fuel and recharge in order to restore them to full functioning.

 

What was the point?

 

The war was over, why bother with satisfying the demands of his tactical upgrades?

 

Why not just. . .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, the little things that feed into pre-existing tendencies. They really fuck you up.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prowl starts to get a clue

A sudden motion accompanied by noise loud enough to startle self-preservation subroutines into life broke into the fugue of despair overwhelming the Tactician.

 

“I don’t _care_ what you guys say; I’m hunting down that needle-fingered glitch and smashing him into fragging _powder_.” Bonecrusher snarled, lurching to his feet with optic blazing pure, unadulterated rage.

 

“That would be pointless.” Prowl observed, startled by the feeling of protective fury the suddenly pulsed from the infuriated Constructicon.

 

Unconsciously, the Praxian reached out along the Gestalt link to clarify that his words were not born of his apathy with the universe in general. It was merely an observation that personally, he wouldn’t derive any vindication from pulverising the mnemosurgeon. Prowl was so stunned by the concept of a righteous wrath whose sole purpose was defence of _him_ that he didn’t even notice what he’d done.

 

“Yeah, Prowl’s already belted him one and it didn’t help.” Scavenger said morosely, inspecting the plating of his hands where they lay in his lap. “So just sit _down_ , Crush”

 

For a moment Bonecrusher looked as if he’d storm out and go looking for Chromedome anyway, but when faced with the unprecedented unity of the _entire_ Gestalt he made a disgusted noise and sat down in a huff, folding his arms and determinedly not looking at anyone.

 

A brief pall fell across the mechs assembled in Prowl’s study. Silence reigned, broken only by the gentle hum of their systems and the occasional click of armour plating as the green-and-purple mechs fidgeted. The Praxian remained motionless, analysing the unguarded burst of passion he’d received from Bonecrusher.

 

If he had received a similar sentiment from an Autobot via hardline or spark-to-spark contact, the tactician was forced to admit that he’d consider it genuine. However, it had come from a Decepticon who had taken advantage of the results of Chromedome’s rape of his mind. A Decepticon that Prowl was now bound to, mind-to-mind and spark-to-spark via hacks made to his code. Gestalt members could not lie through the bond.

 

It was a hideous snarl of conflicting facts that Prowl was having extreme difficulty sorting out without his Battle Computer.

 

All his dulled processors came up with was a sneaking suspicion that these purple-and-green horrors might just be telling him the truth, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How do you deal with one little bit of information that is negated by everything the brain-glitch is telling you?


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Constructicons propose. Prowl freaks out.

“Fine! If none of you have the bolts to ask, _I’ll_ do it.” Longhaul declared belligerently, breaking the increasingly awkward silence pressing into every available space of Prowl’s study.

 

Engine thrumming determinedly, the loadhauler ignored the mixture of reactions the Decepticon members of his Gestalt pushed at him. Gathering his courage, Longhaul turned his full focus to the depressed and mildly confused Praxian who was looking enquiringly down at him. Primus, the black-and-white mech was gorgeous. They were so lucky to have gotten him! Fear of screwing this up almost silenced Longhaul.

 

 

That brief flicker of interest fading from Prowl’s optics jolted him into taking the plunge.

 

“Prowl, we know that the situation is seriously slagged up,” Longhaul began, earning him a flat glare from aquamarine optics. “So. . . even though there’s no pre-ci-dent,”

 

Careful enunciation of an unfamiliar word earned a brief flash of surprise and a renewal of fading interest. The background noise in the small room dropped as four mechs froze for fear of breaking their Gestalt-mate’s concentration.

 

“And we’re doing this in the wrong order,” Longhaul hesitated briefly. Once he said it there was no going back, and Prowl’s answer would change _everything_. “We’d. . . we’d like to court you properly. You know; as a Gestalt.”

 

Nobody moved.

 

None of the Constructicons so much as twitched or even let their vents cycle.

 

Prowl was absolutely certain that if he’d been fuelled and rested enough for his Battle Computer to be online, it would have crashed from the sheer enormity of the situation. Decepticons were offering to court him properly, effectively giving him the right of refusal.

 

He had honestly been expecting some sort of ultimatum along the lines of ‘join us properly or we’ll slag you until you do.’

 

Instead he was given concern, courtesy, respect for his free will as a living mechanism.

 

For all Prowl knew, they may have already worked out how to minimise the Gestalt’s impact on his life if he rejected their suit.

 

While offering to court him for the Gestalt was an essentially futile gesture –he had already been bound to them, after all- that they’d even thought to _make_ it was far more consideration than Prowl had received from his fellow Autobots for far longer than he could consciously recall.

 

The realisation broke him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bloody hell, having your lifelong enemies treat you better than your best friends would be enough to make ANYONE flip their shit. (Or a desk)


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prowl breaks.

The barriers between Prowl’s emotions and the outside world came crashing down, undone by the confusion ripping through him. Doorwings shook uncontrollably against the low back of his chair, the ludicrous amount of padding squashing beneath black-and-white plating as the sensor panels jerked with the force of his emotions.

 

He didn’t know what to think, what to feel. It was all jumbled together in a way that defied logic and explanation. How the slag had it come to this? Kindness from _Decepticons?!_

 

Primus must surely be laughing.

 

Too tired to fight the keen welling in his chest, the Praxian forcibly shut down his vocal mechanisms and desperately searched the faceplates of the red-opticed mechs seated before him on his study floor.

 

Prowl didn’t know what he was looking for or what he expected to see. The naked hope and quiet desperation painted clearly across five visor-less Constructicons certainly wasn’t it.

 

To his eternal shame Prowl started clicking like a cranky vorn-old sparkling.

 

Mortified, he buried his faceplates in his hands and tried to stand, intending to flee the situation and find a nice black hole to crawl into. One he’d hopefully never have to come out of.

 

The weeks of poor recharge and inadequate fuelling combined with his psychological state finally caught up with the Tactician. As he forced himself to his feet his processor threw an alert to his HUD. The massive emotional strain had breached some heretofore-unknown critical threshold and survival protocols had kicked in, cutting the majority of his conscious control over motor functions with a subroutine only a Medic could disengage.

 

Prowl crumpled to the floor before the stunned Constructicons, landing awkwardly on knees and elbows. The survival protocols had re-engaged his vocaliser, presumably to allow him to call for aid. Prowl hiccupped with shock, momentarily stunned by the fall. As the shock wore off he started to shake, doorwings held high and stiff as armour plates rattled against each other.

 

This additional humiliation was too much. He couldn’t do this anymore.

 

Prowl’s engine whined with strain as he fought desperately against the overrides which were restricting his ability to move. He had to escape, find somewhere private and try to pull himself back together.

 

The Constructicons lurched forward as one being, stopping short when the storm of Prowls emotions slammed at them through the Gestalt bond.

 

A broken ultrasonic keen of grief and denial worked its way out of the Tacticians throat, slipping past clenched and bared denta.

 

“Prowl. . .” Whoever it was spoke too softly to be identified.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It is possible to be so extremely sad you cannot move. It can literally be life-saving.  
> Also: Having anyone witness a meltdown on this scale is EXTREMELY embarrassing.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Constructicons try to help

“Prowl. . .” 

 

More concern than the Praxian had ever heard turned his way filled the single name-glyph but he still flinched at the sound. His shame was being witnessed by the last mechs he’d ever want to see it.

 

It didn’t matter that they’d already seen every hidden nook and cranny of him during their merges as Devastator. This was immediate, present, _now_ and he was being forced to endure every second with no option of ducking out of the memory stream.

 

For a few moments there was silence. Then a low murmur of conversation pitched too quietly for Prowl to hear over the roaring filling his audios. The Decepticons were talking about him as if he wasn’t even there.

 

Why wouldn’t they just _go_ already?!

 

“You fragging crowd him and I _swear_ I’ll disassemble you without a painblocker.” Hook hissed from somewhere to Prowl’s left.

 

Prowl’s hands were still covering his face, where he’d put them just before the survival protocols had been triggered. He could still hear perfectly well through the keens being jerked unwillingly from him as a mech approached.

 

Purple fingers made tentative contact with black forearm plating.

 

It was small consolation for Prowl to discover that he only had enough motor control to twitch.

 

He didn’t try to pull away from the touch. After a minute the rest of the hand followed gently, resting against Prowl’s forearm as he keened and shook.

 

It was a totally non-threatening touch, not demanding anything of him or pushing the uncertain boundaries that lay somewhere in the dangerous no-mans-land between Prowl and the rest of the Gestalt. The hand squeezed gently, a Scavenger-tinged brush of affection fluttered briefly against Prowl’s chaotic EM field.

 

The smallest quiver of disbelief made itself heard over the storm of agony tearing Prowl apart as a second set of fingers brushed beside the first, repeating the same slow process of **touch – wait – ok? – ok – hand - it’s me**.

 

They _still_ weren’t pushing.

 

Prowl had completely expected to be either mocked or smothered.

 

If his Battle Computer had been online it probably would have melted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Constructicon Cuddle-Piles: Cure for all Gestalt problems.  
> -If problem not actually cured, please consult your local weapons dealer-


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Constructicons employ strategic decency. It's almost cute.

The Decepticon members of the Gestalt were totally out of their depth when it came to the current situation, but that slam of agony from Prowl demanded that they do _something_.

 

If it had been one of them in Prowls place they would have simply stacked themselves on and around him until he felt better, then sought out the cause of the problem to disassemble it as messily as needed.

 

Instead they had to wing it. Moving slowly, giving Prowl time to adjust or push them away if he wanted to. After a half-hour that felt like an eternity all five Constructicons had a hand on one of Prowl’s arms, using the contact to cradle him in a wordless net of support.

 

Being the immaculate judges of physical space that they were, the Constructicons had managed to position themselves around Prowl so that he still had a clear avenue of escape, even if he couldn’t utilise it. There wasn’t a single piece of green or purple plating occupying the region black-and-white doorwings could conceivably reach from Prowl’s current position.

 

“What do you need us to do, Prowl?” Mixmaster asked, flexing his fingers against Prowl’s forearm plating in an almost-caress. “We know how to help each-other when one of us is upset, but. . .” The chemist trailed off, shrugging helplessly even though Prowl couldn’t see him.

 

“We don’t know what you’d want us to do.” Bonecrusher chimed in when words failed his Gestalt-mate.

 

Prowl found it hard to believe what his audios were picking up.

 

This couldn’t be real.

 

“We’re just a bunch of construction mechs,” Scavenger said, making the humiliating admission since he had nothing to lose by doing so. “We’re not as smart as you are.”

 

“We like it though, how you’re smarter than us.” Longhaul said, glad the digger had admitted what everyone else was too proud to say. “It’s part of why we want you.”

 

“If you’ll have us” Hook said gravely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still going *rolls away*


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prowl gets confused by traditional Gestalt comfort methods

Five steady presences hovered at the edges of Prowl’s awareness, making themselves known only through the hands on his plating. They waited patiently while he struggled with himself; trying to make sense of the way in which his neatly ordered world had suddenly turned on its head.

 

Did he dare trust them? Could he take this risk?

 

Risk/ Benefit analyses struggled through the hurricane churning inside Prowl without the benefit of his Battle Computer to aid him in a decision.

He was too tired.

 

He couldn’t do it.

 

“I. . . I don’t know.” The tactician mumbled static-edged words at the floor, survival overrides still in control of his frame.

 

Five mechs flinched as one being; purple-and-green armour plates clamping down to protect vulnerable protoform.

 

“That came out wrong” Prowls words held less static this time, even though a hiccupping sob interrupted every other word. “I. . . I don’t know what I need you to do. I’m sorry.”

 

The Constructicons relaxed, tension they hadn’t been aware of seeping slowly from locked-up struts and servomotors.

 

“ _Told_ you guys we weren’t bad enough the idea of us courting them would make someone freak like that.” Bonecrusher muttered, deliberately speaking loud enough so that Prowl would be able to hear him over his labouring systems.

 

Even though Prowl couldn’t see him, Scavenger had the grace to look embarrassed.

 

“Might I suggest we try a Pile and see if that helps?” Hook proposed carefully, analysing the feel of Prowl’s EM field to gauge the Praxian’s reaction.

 

“And we can think of other things to try while we’re in the Pile, too.” Longhaul offered, “It’s a good place to think.”

 

“Wh. . what the frag is a _Pile?_ ” Prowl asked, strained vocaliser producing staticky and uneven tones.


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prowl starts to get a clue

Embarrassment washed through five EM fields as the Constructicons squirmed, still maintaining light contact with Prowls plating. None of them wanted to explain.

 

“It’s not hard to explain but it sounds kinda silly when you do.” Bonecrusher said awkwardly. “It’ll be easier to just show you. If that’s ok?”

 

Prowl considered the idea as his doorwings jerked, overstressed systems producing conflicting messages. He had nowhere else to go even if he could miraculously disable the survival overrides and there was quite literally nobody on Cybertron he could turn to.

 

Except. . . Except maybe these five.

 

Five obnoxious, aggressive, uneducated mechs fought on the opposite side from him during the last six million years of carnage.

 

. . .Who were also showing willingness to learn and adapt, and what seemed to be genuine concern for him.

 

Prowl felt like he was standing on the edge of a cliff, looking down through endless empty air at the tops of clouds with no notion of what lay below them. Here were five almost-strangers of dubious credibility asking him to jump off the cliff, promising to catch him when he did.

 

By this point he was past caring what they did to him. It wasn’t like they could do much worse than they already had. Even without the aid of his Battle Computer, Prowl knew there was really only one viable course of action available to him.

 

“’Kay.” The Tactician’s vocaliser was on the verge of giving out. “Show me?”

 

The Construticons couldn’t quite believe their audios.

 

He really wanted them to?!

 

For a long time the only thing that stirred was Prowl’s doorwings as they shook.

 

Eventually, when they were sure Prowl wasn’t going to immediately retract his permission, the Constructicons began to move. Purple hands of various shades shifted cautiously, gently gliding over black and white plating. Five sets of red optics tracked the Praxian’s every twitch, reading from his frame what was acceptable and what wasn’t.

 

Their EM fields held nothing but compassion and attentiveness in a quantity that stunned Prowl. How could these mechs, _Decepticons_ , display such a level of sensitivity?! His higher thought processes simply shut down instead of attempting to process it. It seemed that the universe had gone utterly insane and taken him with it.

 

As he allowed the purple-and-green armoured mechs to guide him up into a sitting position, something clicked. With a jolt of surprise, Prowl realised he _had_ seen something like this before. It had been on Earth, with the Protectobots.

 

Whenever a member of the Protectobots had been injured or upset, the rest of the Gestalt had displayed this level of focus in attending to them. Part of Prowl had envied whoever was at the centre of attention. He’d never known anything like it. As the war wore on, he had simply ascribed it to their being Autobots, but none of them had reacted in quite the same way when their friends amongst the Ark crew were damaged.

 

It wasn’t an Autobot thing.

 

It was a _Gestalt_ thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When you absolutely loathe every atom of your being it is impossible to understand how anyone else could like anything about you. Trying to believe them and trust what they are saying is like trying to cut a brick with a plastic spork.  
> (Cognitive dissonance. Look it up)


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The doorwings cause problems

It was a Gestalt thing, to care this much.

 

For them to care this much about _him_.

 

The realisation stunned Prowl into uncharacteristic passivity, allowing the Constructicons to manoeuvre around him. They never broke physical contact with his plating, maintaining their connection at all times, even if it was just a fingertip on shinplating.

 

The Tactician’s sluggish processors nearly stalled completely as he tried to process the concept of the Constructicons genuinely caring about him enough to consider his needs regarding the entire situation. To suggest that they might be willing to let go of him despite how much they wanted him, if that was what he truly wished.

 

When considered in the light of the few other Gestalts that Prowl knew of, it was completely and utterly plausible.

 

Running the same scenario with himself as one of the variables?

 

He couldn’t quite do it.

 

It seemed impossible.

 

Until he factored in his altered code.

 

Then it _almost_ worked.

 

Eventually Prowl found himself lying in his favourite recharge position; sprawled comfortably face-down, helm resting on his arms and doorwings free to move as they wished. A flash start of surprise shot through the Praxian before he realised that the Constructicons had probably found this along with everything else when they went on their little rummage trip through his memories.

 

The black-and-white plated mech was spread along the Constructicon’s outstretched legs; three facing his left side and two facing his right, with Scavenger right in the middle of the left-hand row of support instead of at the end where he’d feel excluded. Their hands settled on Prowl’s back, carefully avoiding aft and doorwings while keeping him from irrationally the irrational feeling that he was going to float away.

 

Prowl had no idea what to make of the situation.

 

“This is a lot harder than I thought it would be,” Longhaul muttered, “You know, a Pile with doorwings.”

 

“Well shut up and figure out a solution for next time.” Mixmaster snapped.

 

“You mean if Prowl is OK with there being a next time.” Scavenger’s vocalisation was small, risking the ire of the Gestalt by pointing out an unwelcome truth.

 

Unconsciously, Prowl brushed at Scavenger’s shoulder with a doorwing, trying to reassure the Constructicon. Five sets of vents stalled in astonishment as Prowl realised what he’d done. He tried to retrieve his doorwing only to have it locked place when the survival overrides cut the sudden, voluntary movement.

 

“Um, Prowl?” Scavenger sounded thoroughly confused, hands suddenly nervous against Prowl’s mid-back plating.


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hook figures out the problem

“Oh slag.” Hook said, dawning realisation in his tone. “Prowl, did some weird kind of override protocol come up on your HUD before?”

 

Embarrassed, all Prowl could do was offline his optics and nod against his arms. His left doorwing was frozen at a really strange angle in midair while the right dropped to lie flat along his backplates, covering the purple hands that were still holding comfort gently against his EM field.

 

“If you want me to, I can run the medical overrides,” Hook offered carefully, “Then you’ll be able to smack these glitches if they

 

“What kind of override?” Mixmaster asked, radiating curiosity.

 

Prowl tensed, pulling his field in. The ersatz Medic had probably seen this coding fairly often in the early days of the war, when mechs couldn’t handle what they’d done and tried to offline themselves. Before all that were left in the Decepticons were those who couldn’t care less about killing, or even enjoyed it. What would Hook say? Would he tell the others outright what had triggered it?

 

“Just a lockup thing,” Hook said condescendingly, “My guess is that Prowl’s mods couldn’t handle the idea of you _cretins_ doing something as civilised as asking to court a mech.”

 

“Oi!” “Hey!” “Aft!”

 

Despite himself, the Tactician almost wanted to laugh. The situation was utterly, completely absurd. The co-actors in his living nightmare asking to court him, offering comfort, then Hook protecting him from the others? There was no way hid tactical mods would ever be able to run the numbers on this one. It was simply too far-fetched.

 

Maybe he was still in recharge and this was just some surreal dream his processors had thrown together out of memory fragments and wishful thinking?

 

“Prowl?” Hook sounded worried.

 

Oh, right. The overrides.

 

Prowl’s lethargic processor muddled over it briefly before giving up.

 

It wasn’t like they could slag his life up any more than they already had.

 

“Go ‘head.” The Tactician mumbled into his forearm plating, just able to tip his head so that the medical ports at the base of his helm were aimed in the general direction of Hook’s voice.


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Soft Prowl, warm Prowl, little clump of Cop.

Hook’s touch was calm and professional as he connected to Prowl’s medical port. It was strange how something that could have been shockingly intimate –given the situation- managed to feel exactly the same as it would have if Prowl was lying on a Medberth instead of being draped comfortably across the laps of five Constructicons on his Study floor.

 

A gentle ping got Prowl’s attention, Hook politely requesting that he drop firewalls so the Survival Protocols could be disengaged. The Tactician did as requested, watching suspiciously as Hook moved unerringly for the troublesome lines of code. Glyph by glyph they were smoothed over, pacified by medical authority and tucked neatly back into hibernation.

 

The Constructicon went back over his work to make sure it was up to his standards, giving Prowl a little mental nudge of amusement and understanding for his suspicions as he backed calmly out of the Praxian’s processors.

 

“There; done.”

 

Hook spoke aloud for the benefit of the rest of the Gestalt as he disconnected his diagnostic cable from Prowl’s medical port and retracted it.

 

“Thank you.” The Praxian said with real gratitude. His vocaliser seemed to be recovering a little, there was less static in his words than before.

 

Prowl indulged in a full-frame stretch, revelling in the freedom to move his own limbs. His doorwings swayed comfortably in the air above his back, moving in the intangible currents of the five EM fields of the Gestalt as they continues to surround him in a cocoon of security.

 

Now that he _could_ get up and leave the ‘Pile’- sure the Constructicons would let him if he did – Prowl found that he didn’t actually want to move. It wasn’t just the Gestalt coding that made him reluctant to get up; it was something deeper. Cybertronians were by nature an intensely social species, regular interaction and contact with others was essential for their wellbeing.

 

Prowl hadn’t been willingly offered this kind of contact in millennia and he was loathe to leave it. The Constructicons seemed happy where they were, too. Hands rested against his back armour or patted it in gentle, soothing motions.

 

It was . . . nice.

 

Surrounded and held by the unwavering support of five mechs who weren’t demanding anything of him, the inferno of black flame that had been consuming Prowl began to fade. It wasn’t gone by any means, but each pulse of his spark sent slightly less pain through his systems. Each vent was a little easier to cycle.

 

Stress Prowl had been holding inside for longer than he cared to think ran drained from his frame and he drifted on the edge of recharge, unwilling to do anything to break the fragile feeling of peace that filled his frame.

 

A whisper of sound that may have been an exhausted purr came from the Praxian’s engine.

 

Nobody brought attention to it, happy to just be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like I kinda rushed the finish, but I really couldn't figure out how to take this any furthur without it getting all awkward. Lets leave them where they're happy, hey?


End file.
